


Dirty Hit

by venvephe



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, First Kiss, Hockey, Hockey Fights, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: Four minutes left in the second period, Connor goes down to a bad hit.Head-collision-against-the-boardsdown.Not-getting-off-the-icedown.Blue-blood-pouring-out-his-nosedown.It’s when he’s shakily on his own skates, each arm slung over his teammates’ shoulders, that he thinks to look up and see the source of all the sudden noise. Something twists in his gut, something that has absolutely nothing to do with the injuries from that nasty hit.It’s Hank. Ofcourseit’s Hank.





	Dirty Hit

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, over the summer, [M ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_writes/profile) and I challenged each other to a multifandom writing bingo, in hopes of getting the words flowing again. More than anything, I wanted to dip my toe into finally writing for Detroit: Become Human; of course, my brain decided that the best way to start that off was to smash my newest fandom into one of my current longest fandoms. And _smash_ it sure did. 
> 
> I'm really excited to be sharing this finally, my official foray into HankCon and DBH! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it; this is such a self-indulgent combination of the things I'm currently into, and I can only hope y'all come to like it as much as I have. All my love to M and Sarah, who were my cheerleaders and hand-holders as I wrote this. You are the best, and writing wouldn't be nearly as fun without you!
> 
> Also, my love to the bad boy of sports, hockey: baby, it's so good to have you back. Why do you gotta leave every summer? You know what it does to me. Call me in October. xxx
> 
> Enjoy!

Here’s what Connor remembers:

There’s five minutes left on the clock in the second period; they’re deadlocked with the Leafs, 3-to-3. The crowd is a riot of blurring colors, blue and red smeared thoroughly around the arena in the corners of his vision, roaring as they battle for the puck. The ice under his skates may as well be scooped into a snow cone, for how scored and chopped and roughened it’s become. His mouthguard’s gone pasty with cloying Thirium-spit in his mouth as he pants, rushing up and down the ice. Every inch of his skin is damp with something like sweat.

But, well. That’s hockey for you.

Connor fucking _loves_ it.

The Leafs drop a pass and Jonesy is there, a splash of red amid the blue jerseys. He scoops up the puck and blitzes over the blue line, snow fanning from his skates as he cuts a hard stop, passes to Sully as the other forward twists through the Leafs’ defense. The whole line is deep in the defensive zone now, and Connor rushes to join them, his thighs burning with the burst of speed. Now’s their chance to pull into the lead, get a point up on the Leafs going into the third. The crowd can sense it; the attentive murmurs dial up to a full-on thunderous cry as they draw closer and closer to the goal.

Sully bears down on the net, the Leafs’ goalie tracking his movements and scuttling back and forth like a crab, waiting to drop a knee and put his blocker between the puck and the goal. It doesn’t matter, though; Sully dekes to the right but he’s running out of room, cutting the attempt short when the d-men successfully block any possible shot. There’s a chorus of shouts from the fans, a collective sigh as the goal doesn’t materialize. Behind him, Connor hears Hank grunt, slapping the ice impatiently with the hard edge of his stick. Yeah, they’re all ready to see this one in the bag. Playing against their biggest rivals is always high-octane, high-intensity, leave-everything-on-the-ice hockey.

And they really need this win.

Connor stays tense, stays watchful, keeps his knees bent; this is where the action starts for a defenseman. The red of his teammates’ sweaters makes it easy to focus on their current positions, and his mind fills with the possibilities for how this could play out. Four minutes left.

Sullivan pivots as best he can away from the net and the cluster of Leafs, backhanding the puck to the boards, where Berglund swats it deeper in. It clatters around the boards behind the net, the goalie’s head whipping back and forth as he listens to its movements - and that’s when Connor lunges forward, seeing the hole in the Leafs’ defense, determined to be the first one to the puck at the blue line.

That’s right around when his memory starts to go fuzzy.

His skate blades chop at the ice as he jets forward, five powerful strides, the corded tendons in his knees and calves complaining under the stress. This shift has felt like sixty minutes rather than sixty seconds, but now’s his chance. The pump in his chest pounds Thirium through his body, the thunder of it in his throat as he dashes towards that little disc of black rubber.

Connor’s vision tunnels as he extends his stick, lunges forward to sweep the puck towards him. The blade of his stick connects with the puck in a resounding snap, and with a flick it skids past his skates, along the boards for Hank to-

A shoulder slams into the center of his chest cuts off Connor’s rapid-fire thoughts, narrowing his world to the sensation of his back hitting the glass, pinned between the boards and two-hundred pounds of Toronto Maple Leaf. There’s a sickening _crunch_ of plastic against metal somewhere inside him, rattling his core. Connor’s head snaps back and his helmet collides with the glass at the same moment the Leafs’ full weight slams into him, and his feet leave the ice when his entire body crumples inward. His ears ring from the impact. His nose cracks under the force.

Yeah, that’s when things really get hazy.

Connor falls to the ice as the defenseman pushes off of him, skates away from the hit that leaves him in a heap, bent wrong, barely moving. Something in the gyroscopic module in his inner ear must have broken with the impact because he feels untethered, dizzy when he tries to uncurl and push up onto his elbows. A thick tang of Thirium hangs in the air, somewhere between metallic and chemical, and Connor feels the blue blood dribble from his nose onto his lips.

Distantly, Connor can hear the animal roar of the crowd, the thunder of feet on the stands. The high-pitched clatter of a stick on the ice, followed by another, and the arena only seems to get louder. There’s shouting, and the meaty sound of fist on flesh - but that’s when Sully finally gets to him, skidding to his knees and putting an arm around his back, saying his name. He's only just aware enough to spot the glossy, glowing red of his LED ring in the reflection of Sully's helmet. “Connor! Hey, Fiddy - can you get up, bud? How many fingers am I holding up?”

 _That’s not a good litmus test for the neurological status of an android,_ Connor thinks through the fog in his head. 

“Ngh,” Connor says, articulately.

He’s aware enough to watch as Sully makes pointed eye contact with the ref and Jones, who has skated up to his other side. “Yeah, we’re going down the tunnel, kid,” Sully says, motioning for Jonesy to help him. From the slap of shoes on the ice, there’s a trainer running out to meet them, too. Connor’s managed to creakily get himself onto all fours, but even he can tell in his current injured state that there’s a lot of blue pooling onto the ice and smeared into the cheerful red of his gloves and sweater.

A _lot_ of blue. Ew.

It’s when he’s shakily on his own skates, an arm slung over each of the boys’ shoulders, that he thinks to look up and see the source of all the noise. Something twists in his gut, something that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the injuries from that nasty hit.

It’s Hank. Of _course_ it’s Hank.

His gloves and stick and helmet are scattered on the ice by his feet, one hand clenched in a blue jersey and the other raining blows on side of the Leaf’s helmet. He’s gritting his teeth, eyes bright and flashing with anger; both teams have buddied up in a vague circle around them, keeping each other from attempting to join the fray. Of course, the crowd is reacting as it does with any hockey fight: enthusiastic uproar.

Connor wobbles, feeling oddly faint. Well - besides the loss of Thirium and potential head injury. It’s a different kind of faint.

The kind of faint that comes with an unexplained heat spreading up his chest and into his throat. Connor’s nostrils flare.

“C’mon, Fiddy,” Jonesy says, patting Connor’s hip through the layers of pads. It snaps Connor back to the task of putting one skate in front of the other. “Lieutenant can hold his own, eh? Don’t worry about him.”

To be honest, Connor _isn’t_ worried about him. Hank is the six-foot-two, two hundred-pound hockey veteran who every Red Wings player looks up to and every _other_ team fears. He dominates on the ice, the highest scoring defenseman in the league and second in penalty minutes this year only to _that old rat-faced fuck_ , as Hank himself cheerfully informs their rookies. He has rightly earned himself a reputation for being a bruiser when it comes to defending his teammates - that plus the A on his jersey is the source of Hank’s nickname, after all. Hank can give as good as he gets, in a good ol’ hockey fight.

But still: the sight of him now makes Connor’s thoughts shudder to a halt. He lets Sully and Jonesy lead him toward the bench, trying not to focus on the gleam of blood matting Hank’s beard, the raw, scraped pink of his bare knuckles. The colors seem burningly vivid, even amongst the sea of red jerseys.

By the time Connor makes it to the bench, the refs are blowing their whistles again and Markus and Collins have gotten their arms around Hank, pulling him away from the offending Leaf. Connor can still hear Hank shouting expletives at the guy over the insistent cheers of the crowd. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to look over his shoulder to see the action play out, but it’s distracting enough that he stumbles when his skate-blade hits rubber instead of ice. For some reason, in that second it’s easy to focus on how Hank’s words cut off in his throat, how the back of Connor’s neck suddenly heats when he realizes that Hank is finally watching _him_. There’s the persistent echo in his head, loud and clear over the dizzying sensations and diagnostic errors that flood his system, now that he’s off the ice: _he did it for you. Hank was defending you._

Sully and Connor and Jonesy move as a unit, less graceful now that they’re off the ice. They’re disappearing down the tunnel when the refs give out penalties for the fight; the arena erupts in noise again behind them. Connor’s mostly just trying to keep his eyes open and his feet underneath him, too aware of the steady leak of blue blood from his face. There’s something creaking and rubbing against another component inside of him, in a weirdly squeaky way that wasn’t happening before the hit. He has the sinking feeling that he’s probably not going to be able to play in the third period tonight - and the Red Wings really needed every man on the ice that could play. Fuck, it… it _hurts_.

Connor isn’t sure if he should focus on the pain - on the _wrongness_ of whatever was damaged inside him - or on the shifting images of what he’d just witnessed, the simple facts that are dizzyingly complex and roiling inside his head. Hank had seen Connor take that hit, crumple to the ice, and immediately threw down his stick and gloves. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even a question, for him, to start a fight when he’d watched his teammate go down to such a dirty move. Hank takes defending his boys seriously, won’t stand for bad hits that go against his moral compass of _sportsmanship_ , and his protective streak is…admirable.

But it isn’t _admiration_ isn’t what makes Connor’s internal components feel heavy and liquid-hot inside of him. Oh, no. Dizzy and injured or not, Connor is fairly certain he knows what _that_ feeling is.

“Connor!”

Hank bursts in through the closed door exactly three minutes and forty-six seconds later, the approximate time it takes for the second-period clock to run down, for Hank to jet out of the penalty box and across the ice, down the tunnel and through the locker room, to the private trainer’s room where Connor’s been told to rest by the team doctor and tech.

Seeing Hank, Connor can’t help but smile, even if it’s a little pained.

They’d been able to reset most of his internal calibrations and clear the most pressing of the diagnostic alerts, thanks to a few hotfixes and _literal_ patches to the worst of the damage. Thankfully, it’s cleared the fog from Connor’s mind - even if the last few minutes before the hit have the blurry, soft-edged feeling of missing memory. The important pieces are there, at least, for a given definition of _important_. (Connor’s definition includes Hank, he’s come to realize over the past few months.)

“Lieutenant,” he says nasally, muffled through the wad of gauze he’s holding to his nose to stem the sluggish flow of Thirium. Hank’s eyes flick over him, and Connor can tell he doesn’t like what he sees. Connor’s stripped out of his jersey and pads, and web-like lines spider out from the main point of impact from the hit on his chest. The chipped plastic that stands out in brilliant white against the warm hue of his freckled skin. It’s not a clean break by any means; there’s a gash of a crack across Connor’s ribs that disappears around his side, so deep that the blue flicker of biocomponents and woven carbon fibre are visible along the jagged seam. He can't see it, but Connor's certain his LED is stuck cycling between blue and yellow.

It’s a good thing androids can’t get black eyes, all things considered. Connor’s lucky that the worst of the damage to his nose can be fixed in a ten-minute session with a soldering iron and a spot of fiberglass epoxy.

Still, he’s aware that it’s not a good look - body mottled with white patterns where the damage is bad enough to compromise his synthetic skin, blue stains all over his sweater and smeared across his helmet’s visor. It’s his body’s version of a rough bruising, and he knows he looks pretty beat up. Connor _feels_ pretty beat up.

“You okay?” Hank asks gruffly, still taking in his appearance - his eyes keep scanning over Connor’s bare chest, at the damage there. Illogically, heat diffuses along his skin, as if Hank’s gaze is a physical touch. Connor shivers.

“You look a lot worse for wear than I do, Lieutenant,” Connor jokes as he dabs at his nose - the flow of blue blood is finally ebbing. He gives Hank a grin, attempting to be reassuring - and it must work, because the tense line of Hank’s shoulders softens underneath his pads. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. The winged wheel on his jersey is streaked rusty brown with blood.

“Fuck what I look like,” Hank sniffs, wrinkling his nose. He’s still dripping sweat, chest heaving even as his breathing slows to a regular pace. Connor doesn’t need to see his vitals to know that Hank’s still riled from the fight - and from what caused it. “ _Christ_ , Con. Scared me to hell and back, seeing you go down like that.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, fiddling with the worn drawstring of his padded hockey pants. He tracks a drop of sweat as it traces a path from the underside of Hank’s chin and down his neck, to where it disappears into the collar of his jersey. CyberLife gave hockey androids the ability to sweat - or, rather, something like it; it’s the same biochemical mechanism for cooling his body, even if it’s Thirium-based - but it’s not the same.

He feels over-warm in the little room. It’s not the hockey, and it’s not his injuries; for all that he’s gotten pretty badly banged up, none of his fan units were damaged. Connor can’t say he’s surprised - he always seems to run a little too hot around Hank.

“I didn’t intend to take such a bad hit,” Connor finally replies, but the words have barely left his mouth before Hank’s dismissing them with a frown and a wave of his hand. “At the time, maintaining possession- ”

“You couldn’t have seen that coming,” Hank grunts, “I would’ve done the same. That asshole was the one who saw the opening to take you out of the game tonight and took it, and - _Jesus_. You left a lot of blue blood on the ice.”

“I’m all right,” Connor says again, gesturing down to the planes of his bare torso. “It really does look worse than it is, I promise.”

Hank looks skeptical - but, of course, he has every right to. He’s played this game long enough to know the lies that players tell themselves to keep getting on the ice night after night. Hockey’s _always_ been a rough sport, even before androids were introduced to the league.

Not that Connor’s ever been able to really lie to Hank, of course.

“Gotta say, kid, it doesn’t look too great,” Hank murmurs, combing his fingers through his damp hair and pushing it out of his face. It’s reminiscent enough of the few times Connor’s seen him put his hair into a ponytail - for the hockey clinics they hold with _You Can Play_ and youth hockey days, mostly - that the sight makes something in Connor’s gut flip.

The sensation only increases when Hank pushes off the door and takes a clomping step closer to him. Connor’s fingers clench in the fabric of his pants.

“Didn’t feel too great, either,” he admits. Even now, his head’s still ringing a bit. “But seeing you come to my defense- ”

“You saw that, huh?” Hank interrupts with a wry smile, glancing down at his own scraped knuckles.

Connor swallows thickly. He has to tilt his chin up to meet Hank’s eyes when he takes another step closer. Between their natural height distance and the four inches of Hank’s skates, Hank towers over where Connor’s seated on the padded exam table.

“How could I not?” he asks, surprised at the roughness in his own voice.

“Well, you took a while getting up from that hit,” Hank says, scratching his fingers through the wiry hair of his beard. His brow is still furrowed in concern, but there’s definitely a layer of smug amusement overlaying it, too. “Didn’t look like you were in any state to notice what I was up to.”

“Of course I _noticed_. You were…” _magnificent_. Connor doesn’t say it; instead, he trails off, eyes sliding away from Hank as he feels his face heat. All of these little things that they programmed into hockey androids to make them integrate better with human players - the need to breathe to flood their systems with oxygen when they’re playing, something akin to sweat to keep them cool, the flush of exertion on their skin - Connor keeps experiencing them as something entirely different from their intended designs. What is it about Hank that keeps bringing these things to the surface?

Connor licks his lips, finally meeting Hank’s gaze again. “You were… _loud_.”

His response startles a huff of laughter out of Hank, and he puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head in amusement. “You must be feelin’ better if you can chirp me about getting into a fight.”

“I wouldn’t chirp you as much as I do if you didn’t keep _getting into_ fights,” Connor retorts, but his response only makes Hank’s grin widen. “Really, Hank! When I take bad damage, my parts are replaceable - and far more easily fixed than if any of your bones got broken, or worse.”

Hank rolls his eyes. They’ve had this argument many a time before. “There are far more dangerous things in hockey than starting fights, or rising to the challenge when some other asshole wants to duke it out. Look what happened to you tonight - that punk didn’t even get a _penalty_ from that dirty hit, only a major for fighting when he dropped his gloves to fight _me_. No repercussions at all for going after you with head-shot that laid you flat on the ice.”

“I still- ” Connor sighs and shakes his head. He can’t disagree - never mind the fact that the league has been trying to discourage hits that cause undue harm and head injury for _years_ , it’s absurd that the Leaf defenseman didn’t incite a penalty. No wonder the fans were roaring for a brawl. “I still don’t like seeing you get hurt when you fight. We risk enough just by playing this sport we love. I don’t like having to watch you skate away covered in blood.”

And he can’t help it, can’t hold in the impulse any longer: Connor unclenches his fingers and reaches up - hesitantly, shyly, the opposite of the confidence and surety that he has on the ice - to brush Hank’s hair away from his face.

Hank’s breath catches in his chest. His eyes flick to Connor’s pale hand, then back to his face - which Connor has no doubt is completely flushed pink in addition to the circling yellow at his temple. But - but he doesn’t bat Connor’s hand away; he’s almost frozen in place as Connor purses his lips and gently runs his thumb across the scrape high on Hank’s cheekbone. His fingers curl around the curve of Hank’s jaw, through the damp hair of his beard. Neither of them seem to be able to breathe, tension strung taut, unwilling to break the moment as it unfolds between them.

Finally Hank exhales, shoulders sagging, and Connor’s about to let his hand fall away when Hank’s broad palm cups the back of his hand, dwarfing Connor’s own as he presses into the contact. He’s warm - so warm - and even just this chaste touch has heat surging in Connor’s belly, rippling across his bare skin. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a murmur. “Then you gotta be able to see what it did to me, watchin’ you go down like that and not get up.”

The pump in Connor’s chest seems to trip over itself at Hank’s admission, its tempo surging. Connor aches at the quiet seriousness in Hank’s expression, the implications hanging heavy in the air between them. This is coming tenuously close to talking about this thing that’s been building between them the last few months, if not _years_ \- something that Connor has been hesitant to put a proper name to.

It’s a study in contrasts: from the start, their friendship has been one of easy camaraderie and teasing and trust. Sully likes to joke that Connor and Hank have been bickering like an old married couple since that first pre-season training camp where they met, mouthy rookie and grizzled veteran going toe-to-toe. They found a rhythm with each other so easily that it wasn’t two months before they were always playing as a unit, the first line’s defensive pair. Eighty-five and fifty-one.

In that sense, it’s been one of the easiest relationships Connor’s ever had, both on and off the ice. All of his friendships with his teammates are good; Connor cares about doing his best for the team, and he’s friendly enough that he gets along with everyone. It’s just that for some reason, Hank’s just always been the one he clicked with the most.

But at the same time… there’s always been another layer to the way they find each other’s eyes right before the puck drops, the way they always seem to fall in together and sit next to each other on the bus and on the plane. It’s gotten to the point where their teammates know that an empty seat next to one of them is already spoken for - even if Hank _has_ already dozed off. It’s the slow-building magnitude of the little things, an avalanche that’s been gathering from the minutiae like layer upon layer of thick Michigan snow.

Fragments of a hundred or more moments flicker through Connor’s memory. There’s Hank’s big hand on the small of his back as Connor bends to adjust his laces in the locker room, Hank patting his helmet and throwing him a wink at the start of a game. Somehow, Connor’s noticed but not connected the frown that always seems to hang on Hank’s mouth when he’s got one of his white-plastic bruises, the way Hank tirelessly stands up for him to the press, to the coaches, to the new teammates that the Wings get who aren’t sure about having an android as a defenseman.

And now - Hank’s ice-blue eyes are the warmest Connor’s ever seen them; he doesn’t look at any of the other Red Wings this way, like it physically pains him to see Connor so hurt. At the same time, he’s telegraphing happiness at the mere fact of being in Connor’s presence, in assuring that he’s okay with his own eyes. Hank’s fingers twitch against his own and his stubble catches against Connor’s palm, bristly and ticklish. The corner of Hank’s mouth twitches up into an undeniably fond smile when Connor thumbs along his jaw, exploring the texture with the pad of his finger.

Huh. Hope, bright and warm, starts to well in Connor’s chest as he analyzes the expression on Hank’s face, the way his eyes have softened and his cheeks flushed as they take in each other. He doesn’t like using his observational diagnostics on his teammates without their permission, but -

Maybe the feelings that have been building inside of him over the last few seasons aren’t as unreciprocated as he had originally thought.

“Yeah,” Connor says softly, after a moment that feels like an eternity packed full of revelation, “but you have no idea what you do to _me,_ Hank.”

Tipping his chin with gentle fingers, Connor guides Hank a half-step closer and arches upward, meeting his mouth halfway. He feels Hank gasp against his lips just as Connor lets his eyes flutter shut, the pump in his chest pounding out a nervous rhythm.

Well. You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, according to Wayne Gretzky.

There’s a tenuous moment where Hank doesn’t move, doesn’t kiss back, and Connor thinks his heart is about to burst. A leaden weight sinks in his stomach - he thought he _knew_ Hank, but he must have read this moment wrong, somehow. He’s already pulling away when Hank makes a sound deep in his throat; his lips move under Connor’s and he presses closer. Without a jersey for Hank to fist his fingers in, he fits his hand in the dip where Connor’s neck and shoulder meet, a hot weight that keeps Connor firmly in place.

Connor only has half a moment to process the sensation along with a full-body surge of joy - Hank’s _kissing_ him, Hank’s _kissing him back_ \- before he’s thoroughly distracted by Hank’s lips on his own. It’s nearly too much, after spending so long wondering and treading the narrow line of what he knew he wanted and what he thought he couldn’t have.

Immediately, he’s able to answer a question he’s thought too much about, on those long bus rides with Hank asleep next to him: he can _definitely_ feel Hank’s mustache and beard when they kiss, the rasp of it against his skin a pleasant reminder that this is _Hank_. His lips are a little chapped - well, they’re two periods into a hockey game, everyone’s lips are pretty chapped at this point - and the tip of his nose is cool against Connor’s cheek. But, oh - his lips are blood-hot, soft and giving plushly when Connor pushes closer for more.

Hank shuffles another step toward him, between the bracket of Connor’s knees. His hips and thighs don’t complain at the stretch to accommodate the width of Hank’s hips - he’s big even without the added bulk of his pads - but maybe it’s just that it’s an enjoyable stretch, a gentle burn that renders the difference in their size unforgettable.

Connor hums into the kiss at the thought - now that he lets himself examine the past month uninhibited, it’s true that he seems particularly riveted on the fact that Hank is bigger than him. He reaches out, lets his palm follow the firm muscle of Hank’s biceps under his jersey, up over his broad shoulders and the dense muscles of his deltoids, traps. Hank makes a low sound in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl, when Connor repeats the motion. The pads get in the way of the path he traces, but - mm, what he’d do with Hank out of them.

It shouldn’t be so fascinating; even with the build of a leaner athlete (hockey thighs notwithstanding) Connor can hold his own in any of the metrics that make him a good hockey player. But Hank is height and mass and muscle. He’s got the weight to throw around and make hits Connor wouldn’t even dream of, faces down the biggest of opposing players. Connor’s designed for a certain kind of strength, but _Hank_ \- Hank could hold him down.

And oh, isn’t _that_ something for his mind to run away with.

Hank licks at the seam of his mouth and Connor opens underneath him, gasping at the sensation of their tongues sliding together, slick-wet. The metallic taste of blood lingers in Hank’s mouth and coats Connor’s tongue, mixing with the flavor of Hank himself, musky and tart-sweet and human.

He doesn’t need to breathe but Connor finds himself panting nonetheless, stealing half-breaths here and there as he tries to keep up with desperate, dizzying pace of their kisses.

 _God_ , it’s - it’s all-consuming, the sensations that wash over him as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Their every gasp and groan sounds loud in the little concrete-block room, only a closed door between them and the locker room hall buzzing with their teammates and trainers and coaching staff. He’s already shirtless but it feels like the room is heating up - or maybe it’s Hank radiating heat, pressing into him until they’re chest-to-chest. And fuck, sweat has never smelled as bad to Connor as it does to his human teammates, but right now Hank’s sweat and his own faint scent of Thirium is _intoxicating_.

They clutch at each other, hands roaming and lips moving, panting hotly into the sliver of space between them. Hank is good at this; he curls his tongue around Connor’s own, licks into his mouth like Connor is the best thing he’s ever tasted. The gentle set of Hank’s teeth nibbling at his lower lip makes Connor moan aloud, and he can feel Hank smirk against him before he seals their mouths together again, swallows the noise for his own. Connor’s going to strain his neck at this rate, tilting his head so far back to meet Hank’s mouth, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s been so long that he’s furtively imagined this; he wants to drink in every second, slow down time, let this moment loop never-ending in his brain. As it is, he does his best to give as good as he gets. Hank’s jersey creases under the clench of his fingers, and Connor lets his other hand slide into the length of Hank’s hair, cradling low on his skull. He tugs, just a little, and is rewarded by another low groan and the barely-there brush of Hank’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. It makes something in Connor’s stomach ripple, heat flushing across his skin - knowing that he did that to Hank, that Hank is reacting to _him_.

“Fuck, _Connor_ ,” Hank mumbles between kisses, his voice as roughened and low as Connor’s ever heard it. The sound of his name sends a fizzling spark of electricity up his spine - or that’s what it feels like, at least. Connor flicks his tongue into Hank’s mouth, hitching his hips closer to the edge of the bench - and Hank’s knee must slide further between his thighs at the same time, because suddenly they’re perfectly slotted together. The solid thickness of Hank’s thigh rides perfectly between Connor’s own, and with Hank’s hips just slightly twisted - Oh. Fuck. That’s Hank’s cock against him, hot as a brand even through the layers of cloth. Connor’s mouth waters at the thought of it, the knowledge of its length and weight pressed against the vee of his hips. Suddenly, kissing isn’t quite enough.

When they break apart to breathe, Connor lets his hand fall from Hank’s jersey to tangle his fingers in the laced drawstrings of his pants. He watches as Hank blinks his eyes open, all pupil, all heat and liquid dark that makes Connor swallow thickly at the sight. As soon as Hank catches on to what he’s up to, though, his reaction is instantaneous. Hank swears colorfully under his breath, face flushing even redder than it was before. Connor grins as Hank’s eyes drop to his pale fingers for a few quiet breaths - at least, until Hank can’t stand the wait and kisses him again, unhesitating.

Connor lets himself get swept up in it, letting Hank kiss the grin off his face and distract him with his tongue. They both groan in unison when the drawstring knot finally pulls free; he’s nearly breathless when he parts the placket of Hank’s pants just enough to dip his fingers inside, under the cup, seeking the solid heat of -

The blast of the buzzer sounds. It reverberates even in their small room, echoing down the hallway and into the locker room with its undeniable call.

Intermission is over. It’s time to go back out and play the third period.

Frozen, with his hand halfway into Hank’s pants, Connor blinks his eyes open and stares. He’d - he’d actually forgotten. Between his injuries and their conversation and Hank’s tongue turning his world on its head, he’d forgotten there was more hockey to play. Well - for Hank, at least. Connor’s fairly certain he isn’t getting back on the ice tonight.

“Are you _shitting_ me,” Hank grumbles, letting his forehead thunk forward onto Connor’s shoulder. He can feel the heat from Hank’s face against his skin, hot with blush. “Fastest fucking seventeen minutes of my _life_.”

He can’t help it; Connor laughs, a bright buoyancy filling his chest. Hank looks up with a scowl that quickly melts into a wry smile, especially when Connor reaches up and combs the sweat-damp hair away from his face.

“Say that _after_ you play the last twenty minutes of the game out there,” Connor says, and is quickly rewarded with Hank rolling his eyes and sighing, put-upon. Even his ridiculous expressions makes the components in Connor’s belly feel like they’re fluttering. “We’re still 3 to 3, right?”

“Yeah, and the Leafs are gonna make us fight tooth and nail for this one,” Hank replies, shifting back - immediately, Connor misses the weight and warmth of the contact. “Really could have used you out there in the third.”

Connor tilts his head, considering, as Hank’s lips purse into something like a grimace. He’d prefer to be back on the ice too, of course, but it’s not in the cards. Hopefully by tomorrow’s practice he’ll be in good enough shape to skate, especially leading up to the road trip in a few days, but right now -

He tugs a little at Hank’s hair playfully. “Then go out there and get a goal for me.”

There’s a pause as Hank raises an eyebrow, and Connor mirrors his expression: a challenge.

“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Hank huffs a chuckle, “That’s what guys want these days? Hockey goals?”

“It’s not the only thing I want,” Connor half-shrugs, biting his lip to keep down his grin when Hank nearly chokes on his own breath, “but it’ll do. Since I can’t be on the ice myself - and since I’ll have to wait twenty minutes, anyways.”

“Cheeky bastard,” says Hank, but for all his grumbling, Connor’s never seen him look so… _happy_. The corners of his eyes crease with it, making them look an even brighter blue. His hands settle on Connor’s waist, where the crests of his hip-bones peek over the bulky hem of his pants. It doesn’t go unnoticed that his pinkies dip a little lower, underneath the elastic waistband, seeking out more of Connor’s skin.

“You’ve got an assist and a fight already in this game,” Connor reminds him with a smile. “You just need the goal for that Gordie Howe.”

Hank snorts. “Well when you put it like _that,_ how can I not? Gotta honor Gordie’s legacy, yadda yadda. The presser’s gonna take even longer after the game, y’know, if I do. They’re gonna wanna _ask_ me about all of it.”

The implication that they’re going to be continuing this later sends liquid heat coursing through Connor’s veins, that familiar weight settling in his gut again. He didn’t know he needed to hear it, but _god,_ yes, he wants Hank to take him home. It’s all he’s going to be able to think about during the last twenty minutes of play - and Connor can only hope that Hank will be similarly distracted.

Well, only a little. He still wants the Red Wings to win the game.

“I’m a patient man,” Connor smirks, “You’re going to be late - go out there and put your money where your mouth is.”

Something about the innuendo sends heat to Hank’s face again, and his eyes skitter away from Connor’s face - odd, since the Lieutenant isn’t generally a shy man around him. Connor watches as Hank’s eyes linger on the exposed skin of his collarbone, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder where he knows there’s a small constellation of moles. _Ah._

“If - ” Connor licks his lips, tilting his head to the side - exposing more of the sweat-damp expanse of his neck. “If you suck hard enough, it’ll leave a mark. For a couple of hours, at least.”

Hank’s gaze snaps up to his and Connor shivers to watch how Hank’s eyes go liquid-dark, dilating at the mere suggestion. It’s breathtaking, how in tune they are with each other; Hank’s looking at him like Connor plucked the words right out of the fantasy playing on loop in his head.

“Fucking _Christ,_ Connor,” Hank growls, but a smirk is tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You can’t go sayin’ shit like that- ”

“Unless what? Unless I _want_ it?” Connor raises an eyebrow again. It’s easy to be confident about this, when Hank is looking at him like _that._ “I said I was _patient,_ Hank, not a saint. Give me something to think about while you go finish the game.”

“Jesus- ” he swears, cheeks flushing again at Connor’s words. “ _Unless_ you want the whole locker room to see me at full mast in the showers, asshole.”

Connor bites his lip, unable to resist glancing down to the front of Hank’s hockey pants again. They’re far too padded to make out any detail, not to mention the compression shorts and protective cup underneath. They seem to be pretty great at riling each other up like this, though - it feels deliciously, _achingly_ similar to their constant friendly bickering.

“I rather have you all to myself,” Connor admits, and makes a soft noise in his throat when Hank swoops in for another kiss.

It’s chaste, at least; there’s the undeniable sound of the guys moving in the hall, skate-blades clunking against thick rubber as they shuffle down the tunnel to get back on the ice. Hank pulls away with a final quick peck to Connor’s lips; he files away the soft, wet sound of the kiss for later.

“Go,” Connor chuckles, a bit breathless when they part. He pushes at Hank’s shoulder pads, grinning at the look Hank shoots him - fond and wry and amused and annoyed, knowing that Connor’s right to make him get back to the game, but not happy about having to leave. It’s not too different from an expression Connor’s seen on his face before, actually - one that usually comes out when Connor can’t stop yawning on the bus, or they’re arguing about something and Hank finally realizes he’s getting nowhere.

Huh. Connor’s starting to see a pattern emerging, when it comes to their previous interactions. He’ll have the entire last period to think about it, at least.

Hank steps away and brushes the hair out of his face again, tucking his stick under his arm and fetching his helmet and gloves before cracking open the door. The sounds of the game are louder, now - the announcer over the PA system, the blare of music and the roar of fans as the players return to the ice.

“I’m gonna get that goal,” Hank says, jerking his chin in a nod - but his eyes are near twinkling. “Just you watch.”

“I will be,” Connor murmurs, smiling. Hank stands in the doorway another beat, his eyes locked on Connor’s face, before he turns away and heads for the tunnel. The sound of his clomping footsteps are quickly swallowed by the ambient noise of the game, and Connor sighs fondly, slumping back against the wall.

He puts two fingers to his lips; they’re still so warm to the touch, his skin rubbed raw and sensitive from Hank’s beard. He hadn’t left a hickey after all, but this is _plenty._ It’s only a twenty minute period, anyway. Honestly, like he could forget any of what just happened if he _tried._

He grins to himself, nearly lost in thought and the pleasant buzzing sensation of his mouth, under his skin.

Yeah. Connor’s going to remember this game for a long time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Does concussion protocol exist for hockey androids? Probably! They've got important stuff in the noggin' area too, and at the least it's important to discourage head-injuring hits regardless. Also, Connor's nickname is "Fiddy" as in a shortened "Fifty-One" - his jersey number!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Find me elsewhere in the multiverse:
> 
> twitter: [@ven_writes](https://twitter.com/ven_writes)  
> tumblr: [@venvephe](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)


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